As the reader will expect, no trace of Burley could Leonard find:
the humourist had ceased to communicate with the _Beehive_. But
Leonard grieved for Burley's sake; and indeed, he missed the
intercourse of the large wrong mind. But he settled down by
degrees to the simple loving society of his child companion, and
in that presence grew more tranquil. The hours in the daytime
that he did not pass at work he spent as before, picking up
knowledge at bookstalls; and at dusk he and Helen would stroll
out--sometimes striving to escape from the long suburb into fresh
rural air; more often wandering to and fro the bridge that led
to glorious Westminster--London's classic land--and watching the
vague lamps reflected on the river. This haunt suited the musing
melancholy boy. He would stand long and with wistful silence by the
balustrade--seating Helen thereon, that she too might look along the
dark mournful waters which, dark though they be, still have their
charm of mysterious repose.
As the river flowed between the world of roofs, and the roar of
human passions on either side, so in those two hearts flowed
Thought--and all they knew of London was its shadow.